


Ineffable Holidays

by asparkofgoodness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Christmas, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: A place to collect my Ineffable holiday ficlets.#1: mistletoe“There appears to be mistletoe above your head, dear lady.”  Francis grinned, eyes twinkling...  Nanny’s heart raced in her chest, and she said, in an accent that wasn’t hers and in an octave lower than her usual, “Bollocks.  Don’t.  C’mon.”#2: snowHe had always loved its silence, the muffled white peace it draped over the curves of the earth.#3: nutcracker“Oh, no… No,” and Crowley dragged out the vowel until he ran out of breath.  “You cannot be serious... The Nutcracker?”#5: fireIt stunned Crowley, at first, that Aziraphale couldn’t hear the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat from across the room, but then the crackling of the ravenous fire overtook it, becoming the only sound in Crowley’s ears.#7: silent nightThey spent their first silent night in Eden, before the naming of the animals, before Eve, before the birth of human language.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 82





	1. Mistletoe

Prompt #1: mistletoe

_When we finally kiss goodnight, how I’ll hate goin’ out in the storm,_ Dean Martin sang, his voice a warm accompaniment to the lilting hum of conversation a few rooms over.Someone came to the punchline of a joke and laughter rang out, overpowering the music; as the laughter subsided, Mr. Dowling loudly proclaimed that to be “the funniest damn thing” he’d heard all day.Rolling her eyes, Nanny Ashtoreth opened the kitchen cabinet. 

_As long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow._ She paused, fingers on a wine glass, and looked out the window across the grounds.Green grass: no snow yet and none on the forecast.Other children might have been hoping for a white Christmas, concerned about whether Santa would visit snowless towns, but Warlock had been too preoccupied with his growing list of present requests to be disappointed by the weather.Nanny couldn’t have been prouder. 

Across the snowless lawn, she noticed the faint glow of candlelight coming from the gardener’s windows.She took down one wine glass, setting it quietly on the counter, and wrapped her long fingers around the stem of a second, considering.No one would notice, most likely.The Dowlings had guests to entertain, and judging by the noise level and the shrill height of Harriet’s laugh, all parties involved has imbibed enough to completely forget about the help. 

Who would notice the nanny sneaking two bottles of wine from the selection on the buffet?Who would see her walking the winding path to the gardener’s house, or pay attention to how late it was when she returned?Warlock had fallen sound asleep the second his head had hit the pillow, exhausted from the excitement of the party: she had completed her daily responsibilities.The corner of her mouth quirked upward, and she took down a second glass and closed the cupboard.

As she crossed the dark kitchen, humming along to “The Christmas Waltz,” looking forward to the chance to get Aziraphale alone, without Warlock in tow or the Dowlings within earshot, without the pretense of their assumed identities and responsibilities and Aziraphale’s ridiculous fake accent, she nearly collided with a figure who swung around the corner and into the doorway.

“Ooh!So sorry, miss,” and there it was, that laughable imitation that she still hadn’t gotten used to yet.“Oh, Nanny, it’s you.”Francis straightened his tie; Nanny took a step back.“How is the party going?”

Nanny gestured toward the source of the noise with the wine glasses.“By the sound of it, too well.Warlock had enough about half an hour ago, but they’re all still going strong.”

With curiosity in his eyes, Francis looked at the glasses and then at her.“Joining them, then?”

“No, of course not.Not my idea of fun, and you know they’d frown on it.”On the piano, someone had started playing something that resembled “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” if the carol had been arranged by a composer who’d had seven glasses of mulled wine that evening.A few voices tried to sing along.“No, I was thinking, maybe, this might be a good chance to, uh– What?”Confused, she followed Francis’ gaze upward, above her.“Oh.”

“There appears to be mistletoe above your head, dear lady.”Francis grinned, eyes twinkling, as she blushed and took another step back, away from him and the doorway.“No escaping it once you’ve stood under it, I’m afraid.It’s an important tradition.We must follow it.”

Nanny’s heart raced in her chest, and she said, in an accent that wasn’t hers and in an octave lower than her usual, “Bollocks.Don’t.C’mon.”She nodded her head in the direction of the window and the gardener’s house.“Let’s…”But Francis had taken two steps closer, and he was reaching out his calloused hand toward her face.She swallowed, closed her eyes, and cursed Aziraphale and Christmas and this assignment – never mind that it was Crowley’s own idea in the first place – and traditions and the antichrist and all of this pretending that made it possible for Aziraphale to kiss his cheek like this, just a soft brush of lips and the smell of rosemary and evergreen and earth.Curse it all, because in all the thousands of years, all the ways Crowley had imagined Aziraphale first kissing him, none of them had looked like this.And he had always been able to kiss him back.But not like this, with Aziraphale using the mistletoe as an excuse and their employers, who would surely fire them from the most important assignment of their 6,000 years on this planet, in the next room.

When Nanny opened her eyes, Francis had returned the proper distance between them, but that mischievous twinkle hadn’t left his eyes.“Merry Christmas, dear,” he said in his real voice, forcing a pained exhale from Nanny’s lips.

“You’re early.Not Christmas yet.”She recovered slowly, returning his smile with a small one of her own.“Wine?”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely.I do hope they have better taste in wine than literature.”Francis grimaced.

“I’m sure we’ll make do.”

“Quite.You select a few bottles, and I’m going to see if there’s any of that delightful chocolate cake leftover.”Francis slid past her and headed for the fridge.“I’m sure they won’t notice if a few pieces disappear.”

And he was right: the Dowlings didn’t notice the missing cake or wine glasses or bottles of Merlot.No one noticed the nanny and the gardener crossing the lawn, arms full, way lit by the silver-shine of the December moon.No one noticed the way her posture relaxed and her smile grew as she listened to him describe what Warlock had done to the wreath he had been making for the Dowlings’ door.No one noticed the gardener hold his door open for her, glancing back at the house to make sure they were safely alone before following her inside.No one at the party noticed, too caught up in singing along to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” in the wrong key. _I wish I knew how – Your eyes are like starlight now. – to break this spell_ floated across the snowless grounds and up to the gardener’s house, where, inside, the nanny filled the gardener’s glass and tried to shake mistletoe from her mind.


	2. Snow

_Prompt #2: snow_

He had always loved its silence, the muffled white peace it draped over the curves of the earth.To ears accustomed to London’s lively clamor, the South Downs already sounded as if someone had turned the world’s volume down, and now, with the land covered in winter’s first, pristine, sparkling snowfall: oh, the still tranquility was irresistible.The sight of flakes – the big, puffy kind that tumble slightly when they touch down – had roused him from the warmth of their bed and drawn him out here, to the abandoned orchard Crowley promised to whip into shape next autumn, to watch the world sigh and settle into slumber.

Cold woke Crowley, or, rather, an absence of warmth that he had grown quite used to.A groan, then a yawn, then a sigh when he realized he’d have to go and find the restless angel.Aziraphale didn’t sleep, but he did always read, propped up by pillows or lying down, resting his book on his chest, while Crowley slept.A search of the cottage, padding in slippers across the worn wooden floors, turned up nothing, and just as a knot of worry began to form in his stomach, he glanced out the ice-sprinkled kitchen window and noticed footprints winding across the grounds.Another sigh.A tangle of sweaters and scarves, boots and gloves and that awful hat with the pom-pom on top that Aziraphale had given him when the air had first chilled, and he was out, stomping through the fresh white dust, following the footsteps.

A few minutes later, and there he was.Moonlight danced on the pearly ground, illuminating Aziraphale’s silhouette in a way that made Crowley’s breath catch.The graceless crunch of his heavy boots gave him away; Aziraphale spun around long before Crowley reached him.At least he had the decency to look guilty for rousing Crowley underneath his excitement. 

“Is this it, then?Finally snapped?”Crowley’s voice fell, flat and hushed, among the white-tipped tree branches.

As an answer, Aziraphale smiled and reached his arms out, palms turned up to the clouded night sky.

“Right, well, that’s a ‘yes.’Wandering out in the bloody arctic in the middle of the night.”Despite the chattering of his teeth, he couldn’t help but smile.“Alright, nice knowing you.Let’s go get you settled in at a nice nuthouse.”

When Crowley came to a stop, Aziraphale closed the space between them, taking Crowley’s gloved hands in his own and rubbing warmth into them.“Isn’t it just enchanting?”

“Mmm, sure, so watch it from the window.”A shiver shook his spine.“Why in the world do you need to be out _in_ it?”A season ago, he would have said that differently, but they did not speak of Heaven much these days.

“That’s it, exactly, dear.The world.”Blue eyes glimmered as they looked out over the snowy ground.“Over six thousand years, and yet, its beauty never dulls, does it?”

For a moment, Crowley took in the sight of the blanketed orchard.Then, his gaze returned to Aziraphale’s face – cheeks flushed from the cold, smile soft with adoration, an angel in awe of the human world they shared – and he whispered, suddenly respectful of the snowfall’s peace, “nah.It really doesn’t.”


	3. Nutcracker

_Prompt #3: nutcracker_

“Oh, no… No,” and Crowley dragged out the vowel until he ran out of breath.“You cannot be serious.”A small boy in a red and green sweater darted past him, knocking into his leg without apology.His mouth twisted in disgust.“The Nutcracker?”

Aziraphale smiled, tugging Crowley along by the elbow as the ticket line moved forward.“The dancers are a traveling company from Italy, and the guest conductor’s rather well known for her work with ballet.”

As if he hadn’t heard him, Crowley asked again, “The Nutcracker?”

“It promises to be a splendid performance.”

“I hate ballet.You know I hate ballet.”

“You don’t like serious, dramatic ballet.This is different.Fun.Festive.”

“I hate that kind, too.Hate all of it.The poofy skirts and the twirling and jumping and all of it.”

“It’ll give you a healthy dose of holiday spirit.”

“Angel, I promise you, it’s not going to do that.Nothing will do that.”He glanced around the lobby, overwhelmed by the bright, busy decorations and cheery people, checking for the nearest exit.“Look, I still owe you dessert from that baking disaster last week.Let’s pop over to that pastry place you like.”

“Not going to work this time, dearest.”

Once past the usher, his fate for the evening sealed, Crowley silently followed Aziraphale around.First, they stopped at concessions, where Aziraphale got them each a glass of Cabernet (that tasted much better than it had any right to) and a cookie.Then, they visited the table of merchandise, overflowing with souvenirs: nutcracker tree ornaments, deluxe programs, music note socks, mouse puppets, Clara dolls, music boxes with ballet dancers twirling in their centers.Aziraphale bought an ornament, chatting with the elderly woman working the table while Crowley amused himself by giving a boy’s mouse puppet a realistic squeak and whiskers that moved on their own. _Teach him to cut in line,_ he thought.

When they finally made it to their seats, the bells that signaled the start of the show were chiming.As the theater darkened and the curtain rose, Aziraphale reached over and laid a hand on Crowley’s thigh.“I overheard a woman saying this is her 20th year bringing her children here.Humans have such wonderful holiday traditions, don’t they?” he whispered, then turned his attention to the stage.

While the curtain rose, Crowley thought about tradition, about all of the things humans made special by doing them, again and again, with the ones they love.What traditions did the two of them have?None, really, unless irregular dinners out and occasional rescues from danger counted.They hadn’t been allowed to form traditions, not under supervision.Now, in the peace of the failed armageddon, in the cottage they shared and the life they were forging together, it was actually possible. 

Crowley watched Fritz chase Clara around the Christmas tree and felt, to his surprise, rather lucky to be there.Aziraphale’s fingers tapped the beat of the music on his leg, and he couldn’t help but laugh as Fritz’s father dragged him off-stage by the ear. _Maybe these humans are on to something._ _Maybe_ , he thought – distracted from the stage by the carefree grin on Aziraphale’s face – _there’s more to it than ballet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal story time: I was so excited for this prompt, because this is my tradition. My dad plays violin in my city's orchestra, and I've gone to see him perform The Nutcracker every year for almost 30 years now. We just went last week for what will, sadly, be the last time, as Dad's retiring after this season. To me, The Nutcracker is what ushers in the Christmas season, and I will always cherish my memories of hearing him play and watching the show with my mom and sisters.


	4. Fire

_Prompt 5: fire_

It shouldn’t have affected him.Not now, after it all, the panic of Armageddon months and miles behind them.Not here, in the cottage they had filled with books and plants and begun to repair, room by room: their home, together.Not him.Demons were fire-forged, forever smoldering underneath a cold exterior.Fire should be more natural to him than the air in his lungs.

Crowley told himself all of this, but it didn’t stop the trembling of his hands, so he shoved them underneath his legs, out of sight.With wide eyes, he watched Aziraphale poke the logs until, all at once, they caught and the flames leapt and claimed them.His breathing quickened.His chest was tight.“There we go,” Aziraphale muttered to the fireplace, standing up and taking a step back to admire his work.It stunned Crowley, at first, that Aziraphale couldn’t hear the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat from across the room, but then the crackling of the ravenous fire overtook it, becoming the only sound in Crowley’s ears. _Wood, burning, and paper.Books.The crack and pop of spines splitting, edges bitten off.Gnashing teeth of flames devouring the familiar sofa and table and armchairs and desk and telephone.A warped record, spinning on in the madness.Heat on his cheeks and hands and forehead.Squinting against the bright flames and dry air.Everything given over to the fire, and Aziraphale–_

“Crowley?What’s wrong?”Aziraphale had settled back on the sofa next to him and was now examining his face, brows furrowed.“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

_A ghost?You’re not far off._ A few long blinks before he could respond.“I, uh, m’fine.”

“I can tell you’re not,” Aziraphale said gently.He slid closer and set a steady hand on Crowley’s shoulder.“Please.Tell me.”

A shake of the head: partly to refuse, partly to jolt himself back to the present. _Tell you what?_ he wanted to snap. _Tell you what it was like to lose you?_ There was no explaining that afternoon.The fire.The fear that fell away to grief.How he had looked on as the flames ate up the closest thing they had to home.How he had fallen, again, alone in an inferno.How he knew the whole world would catch next and burn and burn until all was ash.How he resigned himself to burning with it.

“Do you remember,” asked Aziraphale, voice unsteady, unsure of his footing but walking forward anyway, “that night in the forest, in… oh, I think it would be Denmark these days?”

For a moment, yellow eyes narrowed in thought, then he recalled frost on mossy ground, the sound of a horse’s hooves and Aziraphale’s voice echoing in the dark among the trees.Some mission involving Vikings.Meat and mead, bottle endlessly refilling itself.“Yeah, a bit.”He turned his head to look at Aziraphale, curious.

“For some reason, tonight calls that night to mind.Maybe it’s the sound of that wind out there.I had been lost in the woods for hours, hardly able to see where I was going with how windy it was, and that poor horse was exhausted.I was so fortunate to have spotted your fire.”

“Could’ve miracled yourself out.”

“They kept a close watch on me back then.Would’ve been frowned upon.Still, I was seriously considering it when I saw your light.I reckoned I’d have to convince some rough character to let me warm myself a little while before continuing on, but then it turned out to be you.”

A smile began to tug at the corners of Crowley’s mouth.“Do you remember how that night ended?”He noticed his hands had stopped trembling.

“I remember that honey wine you had… and feeling warm for the first time in days.”Aziraphale tugged down a blanket from the back of the sofa, tossing it across Crowley’s lap.“Not much else beyond that, I’m afraid.”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder.Snored and everything.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.“I did not!”

“Yep.”

“But I don’t sleep.”

“Too much mead.It was strong stuff.That, and the warmth from the fire, knocked you out, right on the shoulder of your sworn enemy.”He nudged Aziraphale’s leg with his knee, thinking back to the white-hot warmth of the angel’s head on his shoulder, how he had held his breath to keep from waking him.The firelight had danced in the curls of his hair and bounced off the golden threads in his cloak.Crowley had watched the fire to keep from watching Aziraphale’s face.Inside, something was building that he wasn’t ready to even name yet, let alone nourish.

“Your memory is failing you.I never would have allowed myself to do that.”Aziraphale’s eyes betrayed him, hinting that he remembered more than he would admit.

“Okay, angel.Whatever you say.”When he settled back against the sofa and returned his gaze to the fireplace, he saw warmth instead of danger.Comfort instead of terror.A sign of safety in the dark.Light and shadows caressing a face the way he wanted to.His jaw unclenched.

Without knowing exactly why or how, Aziraphale knew he was responsible for that release of tension.Eventually, when he could, Crowley would open up; in the meantime, he would be patient, chip away at the icy silences.Slowly, remembering the sweetness of honey wine and the quiet of the forest, he lowered his head to Crowley’s shoulder.He didn’t see the smile that spread across Crowley’s face, but he knew it was there all the same.Outside, the winter wind tapped tree branches against the windows, but inside, the fire warmed them both.


	5. Silent Night

_Prompt 7: silent night_

They spent their first silent night in Eden, before the naming of the animals, before Eve, before the birth of human language.An angel at his post, keeping watch.A snake, curled across the branches of a nameless thing, waiting.For what, he did not know.For opportunity?For invitation?This was all new to him: causing trouble, doing something evil.Deep inside him somewhere, the pain of Falling still burned low. 

Atop the wall, an angel flexed his fingers, getting accustomed to this physical form.He passed his sword from hand to hand, back and forth, nervously.Truthfully, he did not want it anymore.Of course, he shared in the pride of victory, but the war – the violence of it, the losses, the anguished cries of fellow angels and of the Fallen – had been an experience he hoped to never have again.Now, in his new, human hand, this sword felt all too heavy.Not that he could admit it.He was, after all, a guardian of God’s most loved creation.A good guardian needed a weapon; a good guardian did not fear using it.So he kept silent, and so did the garden, that night, Adam sleeping on a bed of green, soft things waiting to be named.

Their second silent night was heavy with the weight of rainwater and inexplicable loss.Waist-deep in muddy water, Aziraphale could not tear himself away from the humans, so Crawley did it for him, miracling them both to safety atop a high mountain.There were words of protestation and frustration, and then they fell quiet as cries from the villages below them rose up among the raindrops. 

If their guardian could not save them, at least he could bear witness, and so the angel refused to step inside the peak’s recess and out of the rain.Head bowed, he stood on the edge of the cliff and watched the waters rise above the humans and the lives they had built.When it became clear that Aziraphale wasn’t coming in, Crawley padded quietly out from the sheltered area to stand next to him.He searched for words – anything to comfort, or possibly to criticize the madness of it all – but nothing felt right, so he said nothing, not until the sun rose over the new sea that had swallowed the world below their feet.

The third, in Golgotha.Long after the others had walked back to their homes, they stood in the dirt, the shadows of crosses growing long and then vanishing with the darkness.It takes time to show someone the kingdoms of the world, more time than Crowley had ever spent with a human before.Enough time to burn with rage at his suffering, to mourn his death.Crowley wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, but the muffled sorrow hanging in the air kept him mute.Instead, without warning, his legs gave way and he fell onto his knees in the dust, weeping soundlessly.A second after impact, arms wrapped around him.Aziraphale held him fiercely tight, without hesitation, and they spent the night grieving for this kind young man and all he had to endure because of a Great Plan none of them could ever understand.

There were many more nights like these, throughout the years.Nights in graveyards and battlefields and burnt places where homes had stood the day before.Nights in inns and taverns, too exhausted to speak.Nights when the worst parts of humanity overshadowed even the best ones.On these nights, the silence loomed over them, a powerful presence demanding respect.

Other nights, when they were lucky enough to have occasion to meet without death or tragedy hovering overhead, conversation felt like redemption.Aziraphale would talk; Crowley would laugh.Wine would flow and loosen tongues and their voices would grow louder every hour.They had enough silence on their own: Crowley in his cold, minimalistic flat and Aziraphale in his peaceful shop, books muffling the sounds of the street.Together, when they could, they would live loudly, if only for a few hours.

And then, when Armageddon failed, they found themselves with a multitude of hours to themselves.Not long after, they found a place to spend them: a cottage, growing slightly wild from years without inhabitants, the closest neighbor miles away.It was strange, the quiet.They were used to the constant noise of the city, someone always awake, human life hurrying on around them.

One winter evening, Aziraphale paused in his reading to listen.A fire crackled in the fireplace.Wind whistled through the leaky windows.One of Chopin’s études played softly on the gramophone.Crowley, sprawled out on the couch with his legs draped across Aziraphale’s lap, breathed, yawned, stretched and made a contented sound, reading something on his phone.He realized neither of them had spoken in hours.Frowning at his book, he turned this over in his head.He knew what silence meant.

“Crowley?”

The phone dropped to his chest.“Hm?”

“Everything alright?”

An eyebrow raised.“Yeah?Why?”

“You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

Crowley stared at him, realizing why that would make Aziraphale uneasy.“Nothing’s wrong, angel.Just a quiet night.”

“Feels a bit odd, doesn’t it?When you think about it?”

He shrugged.“I suppose, sure.Missing the city, are we?”

“Oh, no.It’s lovely here.It’ll just take some getting used to, I think.”

Crowley nodded, understanding.He pushed himself up by his elbows and pressed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, then fell back down and picked up his phone again.Reassured, Aziraphale returned to his reading.Silence, he had believed, meant loneliness or sorrow, but now he knew the kind of silent night that came from comfort.Without meaning to, they had both been holding their breath for a long time.Now, in this peaceful darkness, they could finally exhale and breathe in again.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Drawlight for the holiday inspiration! This was such fun to write.
> 
> Writers live off of kudos and comments, so please, let me know if you liked this, and feel free to follow me [on Tumblr as thetunewillcome](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/) for more Ineffable fun.


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